


We're gonna make it (but what if we crash and burn?)

by littleramblings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleramblings/pseuds/littleramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'At the end of the day, he knew he’d be forced to chose sooner or later.'</p><p>(Or the one where Harry chooses Zayn over Louis, then realises he’s made a mistake.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're gonna make it (but what if we crash and burn?)

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted at my tumblr (foreversecretlyyours). I am working on something else and Summer Novela will be updated once I'm through with my side-project. Sorry for the wait!

Harry likes a lot of things. He likes pizza, rain, and lazy Sundays which, more often than not, involve cuddling up to Louis in bed with a mug of tea and some sappy romance flick playing on the television. He also likes cats, despite the pussy jokes becoming a little old.

 

But he doesn’t like it when Louis gets  _that_ look in his eyes. It’s a mix between hurt and jealousy, one that’s become commonplace these days. It’s there whenever he so much as mentions Zayn and when they’re all together, the tension is  _suffocating_. Harry sometimes wonders how much more of this they can take before one of them snaps.

 

It never used to be this way though. There used to be a balance, a line that didn’t get crossed. It was nothing more than sex, something physical to take their minds off of the stress that was constantly being thrust upon them. But then  _feelings_ happened. Zayn’s stares lasted just a few more seconds than they ought to and Louis’ kisses became a little more desperate. And Harry knew it was just his luck to be caught in some sort of weird love triangle. He wasn’t that chick from Twilight, (Gemma made him read it a year ago, okay?) and this wasn’t a movie. It was real life and love triangles don’t just happen like that. Except from when they do. Which, yeah, sort of suck.

 

“Do you think Allie loved both Lon and Noah?” Louis asks one day, feet tucked underneath Harry’s thigh as his back rests against the arm of the couch. They’re watching The Notebook, a classic. It’s one of Harry’s favourites, really. That and Love Actually. But Liam’s borrowing that one tonight for his and Danielle’s date. Why the guy can’t buy his own copy of the DVD, Harry doesn’t know. But as long as Liam doesn’t scratch the disk, he supposes it’s okay.

 

And really, Harry knows it’s not a random question. Nothing’s ever random with Louis, despite how he may seem. Because there’s a difference between being random,and being spontaneous. And everything about Louis is deliberate, from the way he dresses right down to the way he answers questions; cryptically. He never lies, but he never really tells the truth. And that’s one of the things Harry finds fascinating about him.

 

“I think…” he starts, his typical slow drawl washing over them like rapids, mulling the question over in his head. “they both helped her discover what love really is. But you can’t love two people equally. One will always be favoured over the other, no matter how hard you try to balance the relationship out.” and, as he’s talking, Harry slides his buzzing phone out of his pocket. Zayn’s text. “That’s just the way it works.” he finishes, not looking up from the device as he types out a quick reply, one full of innuendo, smiling.

 

Had he looked up, he would see that Louis’ not.

 

Had he looked up, he would have seen  _that_ look in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Zayn throws his head back and laughs, hand raising slowly to cover his mouth as he does so. Harry grins, because how can he not? Zayn is gorgeous and when he laughs, his eyes do this  _thing_. Sort of like they’re sparkling.

 

His throat is exposed, adams apple bobbing slightly as his body shakes with laughter, and Harry really can’t help himself. He leans forwards, sucking on skin of Zayn’s neck until he’s sure he’s left a mark, and so what if he’s as smug as shit when the laughter turns into a moan? He’s allowed to be. Besides, neither of them are really complaining. Not if the small whimper that works its way past Zayn’s lips is anything to go by.

 

It’s exciting, being with Bradford lad. It’s one of the things that keeps him coming back, because Louis can make him feel good. Louis can make him feel  _really_ good, but there’s never that rush with him. With him, it’s soothing. Like waves rippling along a beach and it’s  _safe._ It’s so damn safe and tender that sometimes Harry thinks just one wrong move is going to shatter everything. He hates that feeling.

 

But it’s not that things with Zayn are perfect, either. They’re fast, terrifyingly so. They’re like the water that crashes against the rocks, hard and relentless and sometimes it makes Harry dizzy trying to keep up. They’re strong, but in a different way. There’s no fragility between them, no fear of breaking.

 

And Harry’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t return to the flat until around two in the morning, love-bites littered across his neck and torso, feeling pleasantly achy in all the right areas. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and sleep, because Zayn always wears him out. Always makes him forget everything but his name, if only for a while. But when he makes it to his bedroom there’s already a figure in his bed, curled up around his pillow and wearing one of his shirts that’s just a little too big.  _Louis._

 

So Harry takes care when undressing, not because his body’s sore (and it  _is._ Thanks to Zayn.) but because he really doesn’t want to wake the other boy. He’s always thought that Louis looks his best when he’s in bed, and not just the times when they’re naked, skin sleek with sweat and burning with lust. He means the times when they’re simply cuddling, enjoying each others company while pretending that nothing exists outside of the sanctuary they’ve built from blankets and pillows. Above all he means the times just before they drift off to sleep, when they’re too tired to worry about the world around them and all that’s cared about is the hand holding their own. The times when they’ve just woken up, bleary eyed with bed-head hair and drowsy voices.  _Those_ are the times where Harry’s pretty sure that Louis’ the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in the world and everything else is forgotten, if only for a little while.

 

When he’s down to his boxers, he climbs in on his side of the bed (they’ve shared enough times in the past few years for them to have designated sides, now.) and shifts as close to Louis as he can get without waking him. The heat that the other boy radiates is almost like a caress against his slightly chilled skin and he wants to be closer, wants to be warmed by Louis until all traces of the outside have disappeared and it’s only them. Them, and nothing else.

 

Harry closes his eyes, breathing out as his head touches the pillow only mere millimetres away from Louis’. The action sounds loud in the otherwise silent room. He doesn’t like the way it seems to break the calm around them.

 

“Can’t do this any more, Haz.” Louis mumbles, lethargy evident in his tone. And Harry knows that he wasn’t asleep, knows that he just didn’t have the energy to let him know he was awake, until now.

 

Somehow, he even knows that Louis waited up for him. Waited from when he left at Six O’clock this evening until now, wrapped in Harry’s blanket and Harry’s clothes and just  _waited_ for him to come home.

 

So it’s not really a shock when he knows, without even asking, what  _‘this’_  is.

 

And he nods, opening his eyes in time to see the conflicting emotions running through Louis’ own. For a moment, he thinks Louis might leave. Go back to his own room and leave his side of the bed to grow cold; empty. But he doesn’t. Tiredly, he licks his lips, gaze flickering down to Harry’s. And just like that, the mood around them changes. It’s still pressing in on them, still a suffocating, shattered madness but it’s now charged with energy. With something else.

 

Harry kisses him, a soft brush of the lips that’s repeated not two seconds later with more force and purpose and Louis opens up beneath him, like a stream parting under his will.

 

Soft hands snake up his spine, sparks of something volatic shooting down his spine and Harry thinks  _yeah._ He could do another round.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a sense of finality in the air at breakfast the next morning. It’s as if there’s been a turning point, as if something’s changed for good. Harry can’t shake the feeling that it’s the end of something. Something he’s not ready to let go of just yet.

 

“You have to chose, you know.” Louis says, poking at the now soggy cornflakes with his spoon. He hasn’t eaten yet and Harry has to fight back the urge to spoon feed him himself.  _He’s a big boy now,_ he reminds himself.  _He doesn’t need me to look after him._

 

“I know.”

 

And, really, he should have expected this. After last night, he knew things weren’t going to just go back to the way they were. Harry had always known that he’d have to chose eventually. There was no way things could stay the way they were. It was tearing them apart and there’s only so many jokes Niall can crack in order to ease the tension in the car whenever they’re travelling together for an extensive amount of time before it just doesn’t work any more. And he knows they can’t let it get to that point; that they owe it to the others to find a resolution  _now._

 

But Harry knows that if he chooses one, he loses the other. And, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t think he can handle that. Not yet.

 

So this time, Louis nods. Because Louis’ always understood him even when he doesn’t understand himself, and sometimes it’s scary that somebody can know him that well. But at times like these it’s sort of a blessing.

 

* * *

 

 

They manage to last two more days. Two days full of awkward tensions and lingering glances until finally, they break.

 

It’s the final week of their holiday, in exactly seven days the five of them will be returning to the road; recording, attending signings, and doing god knows how many interviews and photo-shoots. It’s not Harry’s job to keep track of the details, so he doesn’t think about it too much. That’s down to Liam.

 

And it’s not like they weren’t enjoying themselves, or at least, it’s not like  _Harry’s_  not been enjoying himself, but life’s a roller-coaster, as Zayn would say. Sometimes you feel so high, so on top of the world that you forget there’s a drop. There’s always going to be a drop, no matter how careful you are. It’s just the way the world works. What goes up, must come down. And sometimes, while you’re on cloud nine, there are others at the bottom. Others just waiting to be brought up again.

 

Louis.

 

“Take the pizza out the oven will you, babe?” Harry asks, setting the table. Two plates, two glasses of juice. (Smooth, because the stuff with bits in makes Louis feel sick.) Always two, because they never eat alone, not when they’re not working.

 

Louis’ washing up because the sink has been somewhat neglected over the past few days, dishes and mugs piling up on top of each other until it looks like they’re going to topple over, so it’s with a sigh that he finishes drying a bowl-  _his_ bowl, because Harry got it for him just after he found out about his childhood nickname, hence the silver  _‘Boobear’_ engraved on the front- putting it on the drying board before edging over to the oven, tea towel still in hand.

 

He’s forgotten the basic rules when it comes to getting things out of the oven. The tea towel is still wet, wet enough to do nothing to prevent the heat from the oven tray burning his hand, even through the damp material.

 

It fucking  _hurts,_ and Louis’ not even aware that he’s made a sound as the tray comes clattering to the ground, but one minute he’s standing by the oven, clutching his hand that has now turned an angry red, and the next; Harry’s by his side, turning the oven off and closing the door with his hip as he gently takes Louis’ hand in his own, checking the burn.

 

Harry’s touch is tender, so tender that Louis just can’t take it any more. He can’t take the feelings, the way that he can never get enough of the other boy. He can’t take the way that they’re pretending like everything’s okay, when it’s been so far from okay for the longest time and he just can’t deal with anything any more.

 

Louis’ never been selfish. He’s always put Harry’s wants and Harry’s needs before his own, but right now, he just  _can’t._ He can’t stand by and just let his him break his heart over and over again. He’s no superman, but he’s certainly not going to be a victim either.

 

“Lou…”

 

It’s not until hands are cradling his face, (rough, delicate, gentle hands.  _Harry’s.)_ thumbs stroking back and forth against his cheeks that Louis realises he’s crying.

 

And once he’s realised, it only worsens.

 

But he doesn’t even know  _why_ he’s crying. His hand doesn’t even hurt that much, (okay, so it does. It bloody _stings._ But not enough to cry.) and the way that Harry’s pressing light kisses against his face usually makes him feel good- so good that crying is the last thing on his agenda- and his chest feels like it’s about to burst (either that or cave in on itself. He’s not entirely sure which one yet.) because he has so many  _feelings_ and it’s not fair.

 

And- “If this is a game to you Harry then please-  _please_ just let me go.”

 

Harry’s hands still and he swallows because  _fuck_. This is happening now.  _No, no, no,_ this isn’t happening _now._

 

“I can’t stand it. I can’t stand knowing that you’re off with him, and I can’t stand hating him because he has you when I don’t. I don’t want to hate him for it but I do. I do because there’s no way in hell that I could ever hate  _you._ You know how I feel about you Harry, and if I’m just another person to fuck to you, then let’s just stop this now. Whatever  _this_  is… we stop.

 

“And I’m going to be here, I’m always going to be here because I fucking  _love_ you Harry. I know you’re scared of losing someone if you chose but I promise that I wont leave you. I promise, okay? Just… just chose.”

 

He can’t breathe. He can’t even  _breathe_ because he’s sobbing like a little girl, red in the face and cheeks wet and cold, missing the heat of Harry’s hands that had fallen to his sides during Louis’ little speech.

 

All he can do is watch as Harry’s lips part, pink and full and about to shape the words that can never be taken back; words that are going to change  _everything._

 

And neither are sure how long they stand there, suspended in fear and anticipation. All Louis knows is that no matter what happens, somebody is going to get hurt.

 

“I’m sorry.” Harry whispers, licking his lips as his gaze wanders to anywhere but Louis’ own. “I’m sorry, I-” he doesn’t finish, the words becoming stuck in his throat as he tries to understand what his mind is doing, what it’s saying.

 

But he doesn’t have to finish, because they both know that Louis knows him better than anybody ever will. Louis knows what he’s going to say, and that’s the worst part. He probably knew even before Harry himself.

 

He nods, biting his lip and furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to control himself enough to speak. “Okay.” he chokes out, fighting back a sob that’s clawing at his throat. “S’okay. Go.”

 

And despite how badly Harry wants to stay, wants to wrap the slighter boy in his arms and rock him until he’s stopped crying, until he’s smiling again and all traces of the conversation have been forgotten, (wants to carry him through to the bedroom and makes him forget anything that ever made him feel less then ecstatic,) he doesn’t.

 

Because he knows Louis better than he knows himself, and he knows that right now, Harry is the last person he needs.

 

So he takes a step back. And another, until he’s at the front door with his keys in hand and worry in his heart, and goes.

 

There’s no more ‘crossing that bridge when he comes to it.’ hanging over his head like a dark rain cloud. Not any more. And it should feel soothing; he should feel weightless, or at least a lot lighter than he was five minutes ago. But he doesn’t. He’s no longer at the fork in the road, and a part of him wishes he was. Because now he’s chosen a path, he doesn’t think he can take another step.

 

* * *

 

 

Zayn opens the door at precisely 6:28pm. By 6:32 they’re on the sofa, Harry curled under his arm as they watch some show that had been on before Harry got there (CSI, he thinks. But the characters are all a blur and the sound is muffled. He’s not paying attention.)

 

At 6:40, Harry’s pretty sure that Louis’ cleaned the pizza up off of the floor and put the tray in the sink. He cleans when he’s upset, everyone knows that. (Of course, that’s the only time he ever does something helpful around the flat, but Harry’s never complained before. He’s always been content with having Louis just watch. Or making even more mess, depending on what mood he was in.)

 

When the clock reaches 7:00, CSI has ended (was it even CSI? The music for the ending credits doesn’t sound familiar.) and Zayn is standing up, saying something about a late dinner.

 

The offer of food is too tempting to pass up, despite the fact that Harry can’t help but wonder if Louis’ managed to fix himself something yet. It’s because he’s his friend, he tells himself. He worries about his friends all the time so why should Louis be any different? (He ignores the voice inside of his head that’s screaming things at him that he’d rather not think about.)

 

It’s 7:24 when Zayn asks him what happened, because Harry’s always worn his heart on his sleeve and, okay, it’s pretty obvious that something’s not exactly right. (But it’s not wrong, Harry has to tell himself. He made a choice, and he  _didn’t_ chose wrong.)

 

He sort of misses the way that Louis’ knows what’s wrong-  _not exactly right-_ without him having to say anything. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but Zayn has a right to know.

 

He just wishes he didn’t have to ask.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Louis’ lips are against his, sensitive and swollen and_ fuck  _he needs more. He lets his hands rake through the shorter boys hair and down over his shoulders, effectively bringing him closer. Harry can feel the hardened length of Louis’ cock against his thigh, bare skin against bare skin making him that much more desperate to be inside him._

 

“ _Need… please…” Harry whines, back arching so that he can feel the burn of Louis’ chest against his own._

 

“ _What do you need, Hazza?” Louis all but purrs, lips grazing against the shell of his ear as he lets a hand trail down his chest, flicking his already over-sensitive nipples._

 

“ _You.” Harry gasps, breath coming out in short pants. “Need you, all of you, please. I want to fuck you, can I just- fuck, I need you, please.”_

_He’s babbling, a string of words that he doesn’t quite register falling from his lips in his lust-crazed state. His _ ‘s swollen, already leaking pre-come against the flat of his stomach and he nearly comes right then and there as Louis wraps a hand around him, deft fingers stroking him almost lazily._

 

“ _Too bad, Harry.” He starts, teeth nipping at the skin just below his ear. “Because_ I _need_ you _.”_

_With a flick of the wrist, Harry’s coming over Louis hand, the white steaks a painful but beautiful contrast against his tanned skin. Louis’ breath is still hot against him, a whisper for just the two of them kissed onto his flesh._

 

“ _And you left me for him.”_

 

Harry wakes to sticky boxers and dried tear stains on his cheeks. Zayn’s asleep beside him, snoring lightly and Harry knows that he’s completely dead to the world so he doesn’t even bother with subtlety as he kicks off the covers and pads over to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

 

The light, once turned on, hurts his eyes and he’s oh so tempted to turn it off again just so he doesn’t have to squint as he approaches the mirror, but he doesn’t.

 

If he were being honest, he looks like hell. His face is flushed an embarrassing shade of pink, the colour spreading down his neck and across his chest, but that’s only a small factor. His hair is wild and unruly, sticking up in all directions and he’s tempted to pull at it to make it just that little bit crazier, (something Louis always used to do,) but he doesn’t. His eyes are rimmed red and bloodshot and in that moment he’d give anything to be back in his own bed, back with Louis and his irritating habit of stealing all the quilt.

 

He tells himself that this longing- this stupid, irrational longing- is just because he hasn’t quite gotten used to the fact that he can’t have both of them, yet. So he presses his back against the cool wall, sliding down until he can feel the floor beneath him.

 

From here, Louis’ only twenty feet away.

 

He doesn’t fall asleep with that thought, and that thought only, on his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning is easier. The sun is shining, (a rare occurrence in England,) and Harry wakes up to a stiff neck and back-ache, Zayn knocking on the door.

 

“Harry, babe, you alright in there?”

 

He groans and stands up, stretching as his joints pop back into place. It’s a new day and last night never happened. Not to anybody else’s knowledge, anyway.

 

“M’fine.” Harry croaks, his voice slow and his words too slurred together for him to pass off the lie that he hadn’t only just got up. Luckily, Zayn doesn’t ask. “Just about to have a shower.”

 

“Okay…” There’s a pause, and then: “Want any company?”

 

Normally, Harry would smirk at this. He’d probably laugh and unlock the door (not that it would be locked in the first place, under regular circumstances.) for the other boy and, when they were finally under the warm spray of the shower, he’d probably get on his knees and blow Zayn until he was coming hot and fast down his throat, his own hand working himself to an orgasm. But right now all he wants to do is be alone. Which, considering he hasn’t showed alone when they’re not working for over a year, is odd.

 

And then there’s the part of him that  _doesn’t_ want to be alone. He wants somebody to stand behind him, to wash his hair for him and be there to kiss him when he gets shampoo in his eye. He wants someone to share a shower with, to wash his back for him because it always feels better when someone else does it. He wants to be jerked off, pressed against the cool porcelain of the tiled wall while nimble fingers work him closer and closer to the edge.

 

But he wants that somebody to be Louis.

 

So, “Of course.” he replies as evenly as he can, walking over to unlock the door and allow a sleepy looking Zayn to come in.

 

And, when it’s Zayn who sinks to his knees, taking Harry’s length into his mouth, he tries to pretend like he doesn’t miss pulling on the ends of hair slightly longer than the Bradford lad’s.

 

When he comes, Zayn pulling off just in time (because they don’t swallow, not with each other. It just doesn’t taste right,) Harry pretends that he’s biting his lip in pleasure, and not to make sure he doesn’t moan Louis’ name.

 

Last night never happened. Nothing’s wrong.

 

(It’s just not quite right.)

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not avoiding Louis. He’s  _not._ He just doesn’t see the need to go back and get some of his own clothes. Or his own toothbrush. Or toiletries, or even his own slippers. Not when Zayn has spares and some of his clothes (or are they Louis’? They’ve swapped and shared for so long it’s hard to tell.) in a draw. Harry’s not avoiding him, he just doesn’t particularly want to cross paths with him just yet, (not when the urge to push him up against the nearest wall and kiss him until they’re both gasping for breath is still so strong. He can’t do that any more. He made a choice.)

 

And besides, things are getting better. Sort of.

 

On Tuesday Zayn cooks dinner; a fry up. It’s nothing fancy but at least the eggs aren’t rubbery and the beans don’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Not like when Louis does it.

 

It’s nice eating food that’s been cooked for him, that’s actually edible. Zayn cracks a joke, something about… well, something. And Harry laughs; an honest, heartfelt, eye-crinkling laugh that makes him bring his hands up to his mouth to stifle the noise. It sort of feels like a weight’s been lifted, the tightening in his chest eases, and he can breathe easily again now.

 

He basks in it, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.

 

He knows why he chose Zayn. Zayn is brash, he’s deliberate and mischievous and fun. A cannonball in a bowling ally, and Harry knows that life will never be dull while he’s with him.

 

If he thinks about it, Zayn is a lot like Louis. Before everything, before they started what they had, when things were easy and they were all just friends, the two were sort of inseparable. Two peas in a pod, so to speak. They were the evil masterminds behind pranks, the two who would disobey the rules and sneak out to wonder around a foreign country at two a-fucking-m.

 

Harry had once wondered if the two of them were more than friends, a long time before he came into the mix.

 

But then he did come along. And, thinking about it now, he sort of ruined it. It went from being HarryandLouis, LouisandZayn, and HarryandZayn, to being HarryLouisandZayn and then everything- literally  _everything-_ changed.

 

Louis and Zayn stopped sneaking off, choosing to spend their nights with him, behind closed doors. Sweaty limbs moving against sweaty limbs and really, it was surprising how quickly they felt comfortable with It. (The capital letter is a total requirement. Because that makes shit serious.)

 

And Harry’s not so sure why it’s taken him this long to realise that.

 

* * *

 

 

Zayn goes home to Bradford on Wednesday, leaving Harry to his own devices after making him promise he’d sort out his living situation.  _“You’re welcome to live here, if you want to,”_ he had said, shouldering his duffel bag.  _“But you and Louis have lived together since the beginning. I don’t care what you do, where you want to stay, as long as you sort it out. Because, babe, I’m the only one who can get away with brooding over the small stuff and look hot doing it. You’re not allowed to, okay?”_

 

And really, what could he have said to that?

 

So that leaves him here, standing in the corridor of their complex with his key in hand, staring at a familiar door and willing the ground to open and swallow him up so he doesn’t have to face  _this._

 

Does he knock? Does he walk straight in? Does he bang his head against the door until he gives himself severe brain damage and can’t remember a damn thing, so he doesn’t have to feel scared about this?

 

Option three sounds pretty good. Only, he feels like a swollen and bloody forehead on top of amnesia wouldn’t go down very well with their management, so.

 

Harry’s hands tremble as he lifts the key, sliding it into the lock with practised ease despite the whole ‘being nervous as fuck’ thing, and unlocks the door. Once he’s inside, he closes it as gently as possible, trying not to be heard. He’s not sure why, because he came here to talk to Louis, not to avoid him.

 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s forgotten about the uneven floorboard just by the umbrella stand that trips them both up  _every single time,_ and he shoots a hand out, trying to grab onto something to steady him. He catches the edge of the table, knocking off the jar of loose change that they keep there for petrol money, and flinches as it goes crashing onto the hard floor.

 

There’s no way he’s going unnoticed, now. And, sure enough, in a matter of seconds somebody’s bending down in front of him, gathering the coins that have stopped rolling and are now scattered over the polished wood, putting them back into the jar that had somehow managed to survive the fall.

 

Harry licks his lips, daring to look up, and  _crap-shit-fuck-im-sorry-i-miss-you-fuck-what-gorgeous-blue-eyes-fuck-fuck-fuck_ “Hi.”

 

Louis smiles a little, a small stretch of thin pink lips, and they both pretend not to hear the break in his voice when he returns the greeting.

 

“You look…well?”

 

It’s a lie. It’s a total, complete, whopping great lie because Louis’ never looked  _less_ well. Even when he was curled up in bed with something he swore was Swine Flu (but, as it turns out, was just a severe case of  _man_ flu.) complaining about uncomfortable bowel movements, he looked better than he does now. There are bags under his eyes, and Harry wonders if he’s slept at all since- since  _Sunday._ His hair is flat, void of any sort of product, which is a rarity in itself because, although Louis’ not particularly vain, he’s still very conscious of how he looks.

 

Which, yeah. Now that he realises it, probably wasn’t helped by Harry ditching him.

 

(Not that he  _ditched_  him at all. He’s here, now, isn’t he?)

 

“You’re home.”

 

It’s said as a statement, but Harry can hear the question in the air. Could hear the way that Louis’ voice wavered as he attempted to keep his voice flat.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, eyes flickering between Louis’ own. The smell of bleach is heavy in the air, the flat is unusually silent and he’s pretty sure they hadn’t put the coat-rack up before everything happened, yet there it was; hanging up by the door, where they had talked about putting it. And this? This was home. “Yeah, I am.”

 

* * *

 

 

They eat lunch together, Harry making fajitas while Louis packs away the cleaning equipment ( _“Bleach goes under the sink, Lou._ Not  _in the drinks cupboard.”)_ and it’s nice. Familiar.

 

As it turns out, Louis had put the coat-rack up. Tuesday morning, in fact. And if you wanted to get specific, it was at 5:45am when he was repressing the urge to leak a bird-killing gas into the air in order to stop their incessant tweeting. He didn’t tell Harry that last bit, though.

 

They spend the rest of the day watching re-runs of the Inbetweeners, sat side by side on the couch with an inch of distance between their bodies. They don’t touch; not when Harry barks out a laugh and covers his mouth almost instantly afterwards in that way that Louis finds utterly adorable, and certainly not when Louis’ eyes start to droop, his head lolling forwards until his chin is rests upon his chest.

 

Harry takes that as a sign to turn off the TV, fetches a blanket from the airing cupboard, and tucks it in around Louis’ languid form.

 

He doesn’t get goosebumps when their hands accidentally brush as he pulls back. Not at all.

 

He finds his room the same, unchanged save for a thin layer of dust on top of his laptop and a spider now inhabiting the corner hear his bin. He pays neither thing any mind, choosing instead to fall onto his bed ( _his_ bed. And it’s so, so true what they say.  _Nothing_ is as comfortable as your own bed.) and drift off to sleep.

 

And if he happens to dream of a time where he bought matching blankets for himself and a certain other person, and when that certain other person brought them matching boots— well, nobody needs to know but him.

 

* * *

 

 

Zayn gets back Thursday afternoon, a little after 1:00pm, and Harry smiles when he kisses him sweet and slow. Things are good now. Sort of.

 

He’s spent the morning making sure the place is tidy, that Zayn has food and toilet roll and enough beers to render the entire complex a little tipsy.

 

Louis had still been asleep when Harry had left that morning and he was glad. Not because it meant that he didn’t have to see him, but because he knew that Louis needed it. He needed to not look like an insomniac on caffeine withdrawals. So he had left a note stuck on the fridge. A simple  _‘Breakfast’s in the fridge :).x’_ with the ‘x’ scribbled out and then, after a moment of deliberation, re-written. Because friends did that, right?

 

Curled up in bed with alcohol running through his system, he doesn’t think about it (much). Instead, he leans into Zayn’s touch, lets him card his fingers through his hair and place sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against his skin.

 

It’s the first time since being  _together_  that they’ve had sex. Harry’s sprawled out on the mattress, fingers grazing over the cool sheets as Zayn sits astride his lap, riding him to the brink of orgasm and when he comes, staining their stomachs white, he utters a nameless moan.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry goes home to shower and change his clothes at 8:50am on Friday morning. Louis’ awake, but barely, nursing a cup of tea in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt that Harry is 80% sure is his, but he doesn’t comment on it. They share a smile, something small and private, and Harry’s really not sure what that means, so he doesn’t question that, either.

 

The water doesn’t take too long to heat up so he knows that Louis’ showered when he got up this morning, too. That, and the open shampoo bottle makes it obvious.

 

As he scrubs away the evidence of last night, glad for the lack of love-bites, he prepares a lecture in his head. This is them. He wont shout, wont yell. Instead he’ll simply raise his eyebrows, say a simple “Bottle cap.” while jerking his head in the general direction of the bathroom, and Louis will know what he’s talking about because they’ve done this before. They’ve done this a thousand times.

_How to close the caps on the shampoo bottles 101_ should be added to the list of lessons Louis Tomlinson needs to attend, he thinks idly.

 

Not that he actually has a list, or anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry likes chick flicks, and Zayn likes Harry, so watching Mean Girls works out quite well for both of them. He likes watching films, and he doesn’t care if that makes him a cheap date because Zayn’s never pulled the Bambi card so he doesn’t know how well a movie date can actually go.

 

It’s nearing the end and all Harry can think is that he’s actually quite restless. It’s annoying, a damn piss take because he doesn’t even know  _why._ They have popcorn, they have pepsi and hell, they’re even tucked under a woolly blanket that Niall’s mum had sent one Christmas after taking up knitting.

 

But something’s not quite right.

 

He tries pushing the feeling away, tries ignoring the fact that his jumper is just a little too tight and might not be his at all since it was just carelessly thrown over the back of the armchair in his and Louis’ flat, and it works. For about ten seconds.

 

After that his knee starts bouncing, a nervous trait that’s followed him through since childhood and it’s as annoying as fuck. And when the film (finally) draws to a close, he’s the first to jump up, striding over to the TV to eject the disk and chose out something new.

 

He doesn’t realise what he’s picked out until he’s about to open the case.

 

The faces of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John stare up at him and he can’t help but stare back. He remembers receiving his own copy, despite already having one back in his old bedroom at Holmes Chapel. It’s a hazy memory, one that he has to strain to remember each detail of, but it’s worth it. He remembers the look on Louis’ face when they all opened their presents from him. He was excited, practically bubbling with glee and he tried (and failed) to suppress a laugh when each member of the band tore away badly wrapped wrapping paper to reveal a directors cut of Grease.

 

It was their first Christmas together.

 

Harry suddenly has the urge to go  _home._ To watch Grease on  _his_ couch, under  _his_ blanket with the bowl Anne had given  _him_  as a house warming gift filled with some sort of film-appropriate snack.

 

“Harry?”

 

Zayn’s voice is gentle, a hovering feather-lightlover his shoulder.

 

Harry hadn’t even noticed that his vision had blurred.

 

“You chose wrong, didn’t you?” Zayn asks, and there’s no conviction in his voice, just acceptance and, dare he think it,  _understanding._

 

He realises then, that everything he wanted to go home to, the couch, the blanket, the bowl… they’re not his. They’re  _theirs._ His and Louis’. And  _that’s_  what he wants.

 

He nods; a small jerk of the head, but it’s enough. Zayn bends, at eye-level with Harry now and he has to wipe quickly at his eyes in order to really see him. He doesn’t look angry, or distraught, or anything like Harry imagined he would in a situation like this.

 

“Why don’t you hate me right now?” He asks, voice wobbling and he can’t even bring himself to care.

 

Zayn shrugs, a small smile on his face. “I had my suspicions. I want you to be happy, Harry. And whether that’s with me, or with Louis, I dont… I don’t mind. I sort of figured it wouldn’t be long before you realised, either. When we - and you didn’t say my name. Ever, and you always did. But…”

 

“I’m sorry.” Harry croaks, teeth worrying his bottom lip as his hands shake,  _Grease_ still clutched tightly between his fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“I know.” Zayn sighs. “Just… go and get your man. Me and you, it wasn’t meant to be, yeah? But you and Louis… you’re not the same without each other. So go.”

 

“Are you-”

 

“ _Go.”_ Zayn urges, smiling softly as he pries the dvd from Harry’s grasp.

 

It takes him a moment to register that he’s actually meant to move now, but when he does, he scrambles to his feet, pausing for a second to deliberate over whether or not he should hug Zayn for being the best best-friend forward slash sort-of-ex-boyfriend to ever live, or just go.

 

He decides on a quick hug. It’s a little bone-crushing and uncomfortable, Harry’s pretty sure Zayn elbowed him in the ribs on  _purpose_ dammit, but he’ll save that debate for another day. Right now, he has somebody to see.

 

* * *

 

 

Louis starts as the door to the flat bursts open, slamming against the wall and  _Great, that’s going to leave a dent._

 

Harry turns the corner into the kitchen, face flushed red and breathing laboured and it’s obvious he’s been running.

 

“Harry, are you-” but he doesn’t get time to finish that question. Before he knows it, lips are on his and hands are in his hair and  _ohgodyesdonteverstopplease._

 

It’s familiar, it’s warm and it’s soft and it’s all so brand new at the same time. It means something, he knows that. He knows something’s changed because a broken heart can’t possibly beat as quickly as his is right now.

 

“Okay?” Harry whispers, their lips brushing once more as he speaks. Louis finds it almost funny that his question has been finished for him, and he nods; a soft smile spreading over his face.

 

He really loves this boy. This wonderful, gentle boy who tore him apart mere days ago in this very same kitchen.

 

“Zayn?” he asks, because he needs to know.

 

Harry shakes his head, eyes locked onto Louis’. “You.” he answers. ( _“i’m sorry.”)_

 

Louis nods. “We’re gonna make it.” ( _“But what if we crash and burn?”_ )

 

“I know.” ( _“Then we’ll start again.)_

 

“Good.” (“ _Together.”)_


End file.
